


When Kings May Yet Be Without Crowns

by DovahDoes



Series: Those Who Wander [3]
Category: Hellboy (Movies 2004-2008)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark!John Myers, Humor, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Not sure if we're at E or M so I went with E, Or at least the occasional attempt at, Original Character(s), Protective John, Protective Nuada, Smut, Some Humor, give it some time, maybe even ACTUALLY dark in this part yall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2019-08-05 15:10:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16369988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DovahDoes/pseuds/DovahDoes
Summary: While the Golden Army has been returned to standby, an old enemy responsible for initially bringing John and Nuada together moves rapidly into the race to decide the world's fate.And though one crown is defunct, another of equal (and potentiallysuperior) power is on the rise.(Third and final part of the series, y'all!  It's gonna be a long one, this time~.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's got two thumbs and got their ass kicked by real life? ;DD
> 
> Anyway, hope you guys end up enjoying this part as much as the previous ones, once I really get into the swing of a few things I've plotted out.

 

As suddenly as one falls asleep, and with the same sort of imprecise awareness of when it even occurs, Nuada’s eyes open to inky blackness.  Quickly feeling down his body, he is confused to note that he seems to be garbed in the soft, informal loungewear he favours when roaming about his bedchambers or one of the few secure safe houses he occasionally frequents.

 

Having taken account of his person, he quickly comes to realize he must be somewhere beyond the physical plane, as there is just the awful memory of his indirectly delivered mortal wound.  Only a distant discomfort emanates from the area, now, but he cannot be sure if it’s heartsickness for his lover who he’s left behind to suffer through the agony of a broken partial bond.

 

 _Hak’sh._ John...

 

As if summoned by his thinking about his significant other, a small orange-yellow ball of light glides over his left shoulder from behind him and comes to hover just in front of his chest.  Flickering once, the fist-sized orb flickers once and then begins to glow in increasing intensity, putting off waves of heat not unlike what one feels when standing a short distance from a roaring fireplace.  When the light grows bright enough that he’s forced to shut his eyes _and_ shield them, lest it still potentially blind him, there prickles a familiar sixth sense for a familiar presence, nearby.

 

Hardly caring, suddenly, that he might very well damage his sight for his lack of forethought, Nuada lowers his hand from before his face and opens his eyes to confirm the preposterous suspicion he has. 

 

Pale orange irises, coloured like the flesh of a sweet summer melon meet his gaze steadily.

 

“ _…Mother?”_ he breathes _._

 

When he inhales, he immediately recognizes the particular mixture of yarrow and verbena scents.  Wavy, wheat blonde hair that seamlessly transitions to a burnt orange hue near its tips flutters around both of their figures for a moment as she crashes into him in an embrace so tight that it steals his breath all over again.

 

The thunderstruck prince is left thoroughly off-kilter by the surreal situation, and works to find his mental equilibrium in the face of the utterly surreal situation.

 

“Nuada,” she says, eyes shimmering with tears that she dashes away once before hardening her resolve, simultaneously reining in her emotional, wobbly tone.  “Nuada.  It is— it is truly a blessing from the remaining Fates to meet with you again, in person, after so long.”

 

“Mother,” he repeats, still in disbelief over this unbelievable experience.  As he speaks, though, he regains volume and conviction, meeting the unique eyes whose colour neither he nor his sibling had inherited.

 

“I have so many questions.  And so much to share— about my beloved mate **,** about the world and how it has changed for the worse, and so much more.  I am also grateful for the opportunity to apologize for my lack of foresight for the enemies’ ruthlessness, which led so surely to your death, and to Father’s change in personali—”

 

“ _Telnith._  I’ve missed you, too,” she expresses, smoothly curtailing the stream of comments and concerns that he has finally managed to put into words.  “But, my time here is short.  I _wish_ I had but more time to discuss you and your lovely new lifemate.  Or to lament the state of so many of our kin’s once-thriving arboreal fortresses and the heartless beings who continue to haplessly raze them to the ground.  I know and have seen all these things, so allow me to ‘cut to the chase’, as your John Myers might say.”

 

Just before his mother had cut into the start of an apology he has held onto for hundreds of years, Nuada’s heart had begun squeezing tight with a distant cousin to the awful feeling he’d only once experienced.  Being almost forcibly mentally pulled back to the day when they had scattered her ashes to the winds from atop a hill overlooking his maternal side’s ancestral grounds is thoroughly unenjoyable, and so he seizes onto the dangled opportunity to completely switch subjects, as the slightly shorter woman suggests is necessary.

 

With a meditative circle of breaths, he mostly manages to recenter himself, even if he feels he will likely never do so fully with his long-passed mother standing before him.

 

Something must show on his face, though, as his mother steps forward and soothingly shushes him, bringing a petal-soft hand up to briefly press against his face.  A moment later, the same hand comes to rest atop his shoulder, and pastel pumpkin-hued eyes catch his own, several emotions obviously still slipping through to the former queen, even without direct skin-on-skin contact typically necessary.

 

As family, he also receives few muted impressions of her own internal workings; there is the same well of fierce love that he remembers from her time in the living plane, but there is a novel, swirling mélange of pride-worry-anticipation underneath that. 

 

“ _Noden_ ,” she intones, briefly gliding one thumb over the lines running laterally along his cheek and then reluctantly allowing her arms to fall and rest at her sides, again.  “Your cause is just, but you _cannot_ continue to relegate your mate to a place firmly affixed in the shadows, however safe you believe him to be, there.  In your recent arrogant self-assurance, you have not only placed your rightful victory in peril, but potentially, your other half’s well-being as well.”

 

Nuada’s brow furrows in confusion, and he chafes fingers that have, curiously, gone a bit cold against the supple cloth at his hip.

 

“You speak of John, yes? **”** he seeks to clarify. “In the past, Nuala has always been spoken of as my soul’s genuine other half.”

 

“This is true, Nuada, but your sister and you have _both_ found your _Chosen_ — _not_ just your Intended— recently, and thus, your bond has finally begun diminishing to a more typical level for siblings.  Simply search your memory and you will surely recall a multitude of examples in recent days and weeks indicating this.”

 

With a contemplative nod and an acknowledging grunt, he concedes to the point without any fuss, not having to look any farther back than the experience of his and John’s recent assault on the BPRD’s New Jersey headquarters.  Seeing that her son has quieted down quite a bit, the queen continues.

 

“Not quite so stubborn as I remember, then: this must be the doing of your John.  But I digress— I have little freedom to tell you precisely what to do, but I will first say that it is absolutely _imperative_ that you and he complete your bond, however you are able.”

 

Spotting his thunderous expression that is more parts hurt and aggrieved than anything else, the she-elf reels him in again and coaxes him to relax his limbs enough to bend his head and rest it on her shoulder.  Shortly afterward, just as when he was a child, his entire body begins to relax and he brings his own arms up to wrap around the very slightly shorter woman, feeling warmed as soft fingers run along his scalp and down through his tresses several times.

 

“Take heart, Noden— you must know I would not tell you to do this if there was not a path forward: the mortal plain still needs you, and so you shall return to it.  However, in order to remain there for the rest of your years, you also _must_ repair whatever shambles of a relationship is left between you and your sister.  This is for her good _and_ your own.  So, _both_ of these bonds must be steel-clad if you wish to have _any_ chance at besting your enemy in the coming conflict.”

 

Reluctantly, Nuada leans back and breaks their embrace, beginning to shiver in earnest in spite of the warmth his mother exudes.  Something is slowly beginning to change about the odd, timeless space that surrounds them; it begins to desaturate in colour, and any speech begins to sound increasingly muffled.  Not wishing to squander the little time he has left, the younger of the pair sighs through his nose and leaves his discontent unvoiced in favour of trying to eke out words that are nearly inaudible, even to his own ears.

 

“I will do these things.  And Mother, I am glad beyond measure for this opportunity to see you again.  Thank you for this— this… whatever this _is_.”

 

The smiling she-elf steps closer and he reflexively narrows his eyes as her figure, unlike everything else around begins to shine so brightly that it becomes nearly impossible to stand.  Like the distant end of an echo, her voice weaves around his mind.

 

“I, too, am thankful, for this opportunity, though it is nearly at its end.  If you remember nothing else, hold fast to the following: beneath what was altered by your hands long ago lies the key to what was lost by your final folly.”

 

Enigmatic, obscure advice: a classic hallmark of prophecy and precognition, to be sure.  And unfortunately, now cannot be the time to think through the fresh riddle given to him, as the environment further deteriorates.  Nuada’s breath begins to feel as if it is frozen in his chest, and he finds himself utterly immobile in the bitter, painful cold now stealing across every square inch of his flesh.

 

Having never been particularly sensitive to extreme temperatures, it is an abjectly unpleasant introduction to such sensations.  Blinking slowly and squinting into the blinding, watercolour wash of fiery colours before him, a sudden awareness of the imminent end of this experience steals through his being.

 

A hundred or more questions he wants to ask and interesting anecdotes he wishes to share run through his mind at light speed, even as everything else around his uncooperative body slows toward an inevitable stop.  If only he could but open his frozen mouth, he could utter a more heartfelt goodbye, or a plea for more time— _anything_.  Instead, the world swiftly goes black, again, as it had been when he had arrived there.  Finally, he can just faintly feel fingers brush over his cheekbone, across his temple, and down through his hair, leaving faint, prickling lines of heat.

 

Alongside the strangely loud sound of his heartbeat gradually building up to it usual pace, a dreamlike impression of a voice says something incomprehensibly distorted in a dark, pensive tone.

 

And then, abruptly, it is just a silent black vacuum filled with increasing waves of pain pulsing out from a single point in his chest.  Gathering whatever scraps of strength and desperation he can from his moorless body, he fills his lungs with frigid air and wills himself to sink further into the awful feeling of debilitating cold around him.

 

There is a sickening sensation like being wrung out and upended in midair, and then—

 

Light.

 

 

* * *

 

** Ref Pic for Nuada's Mother/Queen Solais: [Click](https://imgur.com/F5s3B8V)  **

 

 ** _Hak'sh_**  - Shit.  _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_ **(said: Hocksh)**

 ** _Telnith_**  - Old friend.  _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_ **(said: Tell-NEETH)**

 _ **Noden** \- _ Nuada's true/personal name.  (Yes, I retconned the previous one I had and replaced it with this one.  #oop) **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *
> 
> Come check out [my writing blog](https://dovahdoeswrite.tumblr.com/), where I post early fic snippets and keep you updated on what i'm working on in what fandoms!
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	2. Chapter 2

 

 _There is blinding_ light that quickly fades into what looks like regular daylight, the sight of which he might never have seen again.

 

That is of no consequence, though, when there is something far more beautiful that he will never tire of seeing.

 

Supernaturally bright and shimmering with magic, a familiar pair of cerulean eyes stare down at him in shocked wonder, unblinking, even as they begin to glisten with a sudden sheen of tears.

 

“Nuada!”  his mate chokes out softly above him, voice more than a bit raspy.

 

A head of mussed, uncharacteristically lanky brunette hair dips down as John lowers his head to rest it atop Nuada’s hand, which is clenched firmly between John’s own trembling hands.

 

With strength that seems slow to return, and fleeting in nature, Nuada turns the palm of his trapped hand upward and gently uses his thumb to run over a brow that he can feel is creased with distress.

 

Quietly clearing his throat, he flexes his toes and the fingers of his unoccupied hand.  As he then tenses and lightly stretches several limbs in quick succession, he feels a clarity of mind and some haleness of body begin to seep into him.

 

“John,” he says more quietly than he intended, curling fingers underneath the part-fae’s lowered chin and lifting the other’s gaze up to meet his own.  “ _John_.  I missed you, too, _A’mael_ **.** ”

Blue eyes meet his again, their intense glow fading with every moment, a counterpoint to the ghost of a smile which begins to uplift the younger man’s expression.

 

“We can celebrate our reunion, later, I promise.  For now, we must prepare to travel to several locations, and as soon as possible.”

 

Feeling a pull and then aching soreness across his lower breast as he tries to sit up, he exhales harshly while pushing up even harder on trembling arms.  A moment later, John’s hands brace him and assist in almost painlessly maneuvering him into an upright position against the overplush pillows at his back.

 

Nuada’s hearing narrows and his vision vignettes around the edges for a concerning several seconds that nearly have him wondering if perhaps his usual tendency to push through injuries might not be serving him very well.  Apparently, his mate is thinking along the same lines, as he immediately begins to chastise him, even while carefully helping him to further adjust his position so that he might remain comfortable.

 

“Jesus _Christ_ , Nuada!  You were all but _dead_ for a good part of the last day and a half— maybe take a few minutes to _relax_ now that you’re finally awake?  I got rid of the ice as fast as they let me, but who knows what kind of short-term effects there might be!”

 

 _There_ is the irresistible fire within John that Nuada so loves to incite whenever the chance arises.

 

With his lover seated at his hip and leaning forward worriedly in case of disaster, it is all too easy to sit up slightly straighter and use his hand on the other man’s face and jaw to direct him into a sweet kiss.  John makes a quick, insulted sound deep in his throat before relaxing and slowly moving his lips against Nuada’s as their embrace tips ever-so-slightly towards one that is less than chaste.

 

The sound of a clearing throat not too far away has them both separating quickly— Nuada in shock that he had not heard the person approach up until that moment, and John (predictably) in mortification.

 

“F- _fuck!  Sana_ , are you serious?” the part-fae blurts out, flustered, when he identifies the intruder.

 

The ginger and grey-haired healer raises one eyebrow sardonically as she steps forward and shoos him off of the bed from its opposite side, eventually placing her ubiquitous bag of instruments and supplies on the bed next to her patient.

**“** Am _I_ serious?  Who’s the one trying to jump the only barely re-livened elf prince’s bones, what has to be _seconds_ after he wakes up from a supernaturally induced healing trance?  You young people are _insatiable_.  By the _gods_.”

 

Leaning over Nuada, her typical jovial tone falls into something far more sedate, as she peers deeply into his eyes, likely checking for anything obviously out of place in his spirit.  Moments later, her expression relaxes a fraction and she places her fingers over the pulse point on his neck, an action the hyper vigilant prince would be hard-pressed to allow from almost anyone else.

 

Out of the corner of his eyes, Nuada can see John perched worriedly at the edge of his chair, nearby, and does his best to convey reassurance just with his gaze.  (Neither of them dare speak, yet, lest they break Sanas’er’s concentration during his checkup.)

 

As she is wont to do, she briefly rests a soft, dry palm atop her patient’s forehead for a parting reading, except that unlike usual, she abruptly withdraws her hand.  Her expression is hard to place for a few seconds, although shock and a measure of disbelieving awe are easy to parse.

 

Quickly, she reins in the uncharacteristic break in her demeanor, and straightens up with a crack or two from aging joints.

 

“ _Well_ then,” the wizened elf says with a breezy wryness.  “I suppose I deserved that little shock after loitering in the open doorway long enough to collect ammo for a spot of ribbing, earlier, hm?”

 

John rolls his eyes and breathes a bit easier, figuring that if the woman feels comfortable enough to adopt her usual jocular attitude, things must not be so dire for Nuada’s health.

 

“So, _lanth abbil_ ,” Nuada ventures.  “In terms of my recovery…?”

 

The healer’s oversized bag snaps shut with a click before its owner picks it up with impressive ease in spite of its size and likely heft.  Said owner pauses for a moment to look over the prince’s features, again, with a seemingly nostalgic expression.

 

“Mm.  In spite of the Little Lord’s initial “ailment”— _death_ if you’ll remember— you seem to be, for the most part, in pretty much perfect condition.  It is likely you will feel drained or weak for some time on account of your being frozen almost solid in ice— which, by the way, is essentially what enabled you to be brought back with my intervention and some help from the little fae over there.

 

“You _also_ will definitely be incredibly sore around the site of the stab wound, as there was only so much we could heal without counteracting John’s always on-going fae magic-work, or burning through limited stores of our rarest, most potent potions and elixirs.”

 

Looking sternly at John, she places one hand on her hip, slightly shifting the soft-looking dark blue fabric of her long, layered healer’s robes.

 

“Um…” the former BPRD agent utters, not yet sure why he’s being pinned with such a speculative look.

 

“And _you_ — same rules for him as when you were recovering from that ‘accidental-poisoning-via-future-mate’-induced illness: no _strenuous activity_ for quite some time.  _Understood_?

 

“I know you missed him, and were utterly devastated and effectively emotionally shattered for a few days or what-have-you, but please tamp down on trying to take him for a ride like you were when I came by to check in on you both.”

 

Spluttering and reddening in his cheeks in a way that never fails to amuse Sanas’er, the recently made fae attempts to remind her of the ’fact’ that his other half had initiated the incident.  (Something she already knows, having seen it almost right from the start, but will likely not cop to, as antagonizing her favourite little prince’s Chosen is far too amusing.)

 

The bemused half-smile Nuada sports is a welcome response (and exactly the one she had been aiming for, truthfully), and the way it turns mildly reproachful when he turns back to her is still satisfying.

 

“Sanas’er…”

 

“Right!  She cuts in loudly.  “I’ll leave you two to it, then!  This old bag of bones can see where she’s not needed, and will stop by later tonight while making rounds.”

 

Cinnamon brown eyes soften as she pauses and turns around in the doorway to gaze at the younger elf.

 

“Truly, though, I am glad to see that your time with us has not come to an end, Noden.  And I am honored to have been the first person your mate thought to find when in need of help.  Just be sure to get some rest— _you too,_ Little One— after you’re finished speaking about whatever information you’ve acquired from the other side."

 

Just like that, they are watching the long, silver-gilded, copper-red plait at her back whip out of sight as she leaves the room.

 

Both men turn to look at each other again, sharing a fond look at the peculiar manner of the old healer.  Leaning against a plush arm and the padded back of the chair in which he’d ensconced himself several minutes earlier, John raises an eyebrow and leans forward in interest.

 

“What _information_ you’ve acquired?” he says, perplexed.  “Do you feel like elaborating on that insane statement for those left out of the loop?”

 

“Mm,” Nuada hums, still gazing softly at the face of his beloved.  “I will do just that only if you join me in this over-large bed so that I can better touch that which I would have missed most from this world, had I been unable to return.”

 

Truth be told, John has been wanting to do exactly that for the past several days, if there hadn’t been a chance he might have upset the occasionally perilous state of his lover.  Moving to the chair’s edge, his lips tug up in an irrepressible smile.

 

“That sounds like a pretty good deal.  Scooch down so you can lie down more comfortably, first, though.  Here, lemme help—”

 

In another minute, John is curled up atop the very same comforter that Nuada lies underneath, just in front of the older male.  Facing each other in mirrored positions, legs resting against one another’s through thick layers of fabric and two hands joined atop those same blankets, they converse for quite some time.

 

And eventually, to Nuada’s relief, the exhausted fae before him closes tired blue eyes rimmed underneath with dark circles while his body _finally_ relaxes.  Not long afterward, the elf follows his lover’s example.

 

*

 

** _Meanwhile..._ **

 

The relentless heat of the northern hemisphere in summertime is not particularly enjoyable to the Antarctic-born crown prince of the Winter Court, but much of Antarctica— if only the mundane parts— _does_ experience a warmer thawing season or two, annually, so by no means is it a new experience.  Especially not when they are moving through tunnels that are a good distance underground.

 

Still, as he heads into the cramped system of catacombs beneath the White House that serve as a scarcely traveled liminal space for supernatural beings and creatures, he is admittedly thankful to be leaving the North American continent altogether, soon.  Ahead of him, his loyal personal guard, Narza, is forced to adjust the position of the sword sheathed at his hip after it drags along the slightly concave wall at their left for several seconds.  The sound and the peculiar feature of this part of the passageway does serve as a useful guiding point, though.

 

“Right at the fork,” the fae prince instructs, coolly.  “We are nearly to the doors.”

 

“My Lord,” Narza acknowledges, adhering to his superior’s directions and turning the corner before them, immediately having to duck for a moment when the ceiling dips low for several straight feet.

 

As a group, they swiftly and silently descend a short flight of stairs and before they reach the single, large wooden door at the bottom, it swings open towards them and reveals the bustling, _highly_ aromatic food kiosk wing of the Mason-Dixon troll market.  The prince just barely refrains from wrinkling his nose at the onslaught of strong scents **,** but does quicken his pace to escape the sudden and ongoing torture of his olfactory senses.

 

Several of the longer-lived creatures moving about the disreputable bazaar react audibly or quickly make themselves scarce at the sight of the gleaming, black coronet sitting firmly over his unbound locks.  As is his wont, Chulainn remains outwardly unaffected and does not break stride until his party reaches one of the areas at the market’s edge that is specifically designated to accommodate any manner of instantaneous transportation.

 

With a nod, Narza begins working on opening a faerie ring to their next destination, a process which his preoccupied employer mostly ignores in favour of musing about the powerful device he had only recently acquired.  Already, even not at full power, the crown is again becoming an instrument whose very presence inspires both awe and terror in those who see it.

 

Another few weeks and one way or another, the Winter Court _would_ have its erstwhile living power source firmly back within its grasp— Chulainn would see to it  _himself_  this time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

** Ref pic of the Onyx Crown: [Click](https://imgur.com/ISfz0Cy) **

 

 ** _A'mael_**  - Beloved.  _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_ **(said: Aw-my-ELL)**

 ** _Lanth abbil_**  - Old friend.  _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_ **(said: Lawnth aw-BEEL)**

**_____**

 

Aaaaand because I add made-up words/names in knowing how I pronounce it in my head, but forgetting that y'all aren't in my head: Sanas'er = Sauh-nauhs-AIR.  The beginning bit is sort of like saying the word 'Asana', but with the letters slightly rearranged.

 

Chulainn, being an existing, historical mythical/historical figure (much like Nuada and his father, Balor), already has available pronunciations of his name out there to hear, but I'm leading more to the modernised/boring pronunciation = Cullen.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all really thought my soft lil heart was just gonna do Nuada like that? Nah, man. Too big of a wuss, here. haha. Maybe in an AU of this AU, I'll leave him dead...
> 
> I may end up rewriting the last bit with the Winter Court folks, as I just _cannot_ get it to sound the way I want to. At least posting it'll force me to keep writing and eventually some of the parts I'm actually kinda' excited to get to. CC:  
>  *
> 
> Come check out [my writing blog](https://dovahdoeswrite.tumblr.com/), where I post early fic snippets and keep you updated on what i'm working on in what fandoms!
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me while I worked on this update! :D And, as I am nothing if not predictable, I come bearing another fic since it took 4 score and 7 yrs to get this update ready.
> 
> Predictably? It's another JxN meet-cute AU, so feel free to [check it out](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18691999)~.

 

John and Nuada remain another three days on the school’s premises, mostly spent resting and dutifully imbibing precisely prescribed courses of restorative elixirs.  Early into the pre-dawn hours of their last day, both take advantage of the provided creature comforts that come with the location and make use of the washroom’s hot water before eventually sitting down to break their fast with Nuada’s childhood physician in her spacious personal quarters.  The healer’s unstyled red and silver locks are piled atop her head in an off-centre, unkempt bun as she shares out slightly over-steeped herbal tea into each of their cups.

 

Sitting back and blowing gently at fragrant curls of steam, the quarter-fae woman gives the two young men sitting shoulder-to-shoulder across from her a long look during a lull in their theretofore mostly mundane conversation.

“Alright,” she says on a gusty exhale, lowering her cup to the wooden tabletop.  “That’s enough trivial, fluffy drivel; your departure time is drawing too close for all that, now.”

 

The exiled prince tips his head in invitation while his younger lover raises an eyebrow before frowning.

 

“You’re leaving today in just a few hours with whichever group you embed yourselves in.  You need to know what you’re walking back into, as things have changed fairly significantly over the last several days and seem primed to continue doing so going forward.”

 

The youngest of the bunch blinks somewhat bleary eyes and tries to perk up and pay more attention to the conversation.  Nuada, however, with his bath-damp hair still loosely plaited and laying over one shoulder, gives nothing away in expression even as he speaks.

 

“You speak of Chulainn sending out his people to hunt John down?”

 

John has, of course, mentioned his violent run-in with one of the Winter Court’s bounty hunters on the day of Nuada’s near-death, and the event has been on Nuada’s mind ever since, obviously.

 

“Ah… that is _also_ bad, but for now, I speak of strange events going on in the world at large.  For example, Nuada— and John, too— you both know that the absolute havoc that man has been wreaking on Mother Earth over the last century or two makes for unpredictable weather thanks to the changing climate.  One could say it is your raison d’etre, at this point, really.”

 

Sitting back, himself, to lean on the padded backing of the bench in the breakfast nook, Nuada nods.  John cautiously sips from his barely cooled tea and crosses one leg over the other, his knee quietly knocking against the table’s underside during the process.

 

Sanas’er slides a small pot of honey closer to herself and proceeds to use the dipper inside of it to drip more amber liquid into her teacup.

 

“Prince Chulainn has been busy, and continuously so: all around the world, on every continent, multiple cities— often large and well-populated ones— have been hit with ice storms of never-before seen strength and severity.  These are clearly supernatural in nature, even knowing that extreme weather has somewhat become the norm, as of the last decade or so, thanks to man’s dependency upon using poison to power their machines.”

 

Pausing, and brushing back a stray piece of silvered hair at her temple, the she-elf takes a lengthy drink from her over-full cup.

 

“Supernatural _how_ , Sana?” John inquires, watching as the old elf’s sure hands place the now almost half-empty cup down, next to her cleared-off plate.

 

“Well,” she muses.  “For one thing, before even the first flake of snow or shower of sleet falls from the sky, the ground will freeze up from a seemingly arbitrary center point and then spread outward, claiming, freezing, and ultimately killing almost anything in its path.  At some point during that process, the actual, monolithically large and violent storm will begin— forming seemingly out of nowhere, in most cases.  If you manage to survive one, it is likely that you _won’t_ survive the other— something that is clearly by design.

 

“Furthermore, and perhaps just as important, these nations are doing _nothing_ to combat these supernaturally augmented ‘natural’ disasters.   The humans’ government leaders— or whoever’s supposed to control their relief and reaction forces— either issue no official commands to deal with these occurrences or are appallingly slow to do so.”

 

“Hm,” Nuada breathes through his nose.  “And based on your demeanor, you’d have us aim to stop this wave of human population control with immediacy, yes?”

 

Looking a bit annoyed (but more-so just concerned), the ex-royal physician leans forward in her seat a bit and gives Nuada the sort of withering look that not very many people could get away with safely.

 

“If this weren’t my day off where I do my damndest to keep a level head and stay relaxed, I would wind up and smack you upside the head, Little Prince.  _Use your brain_!  Or have all the centuries of wandering about listlessly rotted it out?  You _know_ Chulainn, and more importantly, you know about _strategy_.  Yes, the current circumstances mean that the results of his actions look a lot like the results you might aim for if given the chance, but for _how long_ will this… ‘synergy’ last?

 

“ _Yes_ , he is helpfully destroying mortals’ major cities and transportation hubs, and very likely using fae magics and charm to manipulate human leaders into weaker positions, _but_ those destructive ice storms are _also_ cropping up in uninhabited, previously untouched swathes of land and corrupting their delicate ecosystems.  Rainforests, grasslands, tundra, borean forests, deserts, and the list goes on and on.  Where will your glorious forests grow when all the world’s ground has turned to ice?”

 

Nuada’s well-practiced unchanging gaze becomes a bit pinched at the news of the unnecessary destruction of the already rare, remaining places where nature still flourishes due to a lack of human interference.  Sanas’er sees that his stubborn moue— which has not changed much since he was a waist-high elfling— is very gradually relaxing.

 

“Not many beyond Chulainn, his court, and their ilk are suited to living on frozen, utterly barren wastelands, after all.  Least of all your better half, here, who still exhibits a hyper-sensitivity to ice magicks that may or may not ever resolve itself.  I’m sure the poor boy’s about to turn blue just thinking about it all.”

 

Shooting the healer a glare, John doesn’t bother disputing her flippant (but not inaccurate) statement, but _does_ surreptitiously curl both his hands around the hot porcelain of his cup of tea to ward off any potential oncoming phantom chills.  (It also helps that Nuada wraps a hand around his waist and draws him closer so that he can draw both comfort and warmth from his mate’s body against his own.)

 

Golden eyes retain their flinty edge as they glance briefly at the temporarily downturned head of slightly overgrown brown hair close by before looking forward again with a less stoic cast.

 

“Noted.  Additionally, and most importantly, they will likely never end their pursuit of **John** until Chulainn himself is eliminated.  I only wonder at what that typical shut-in is doing globe-trotting as he is, and there is a story beginning to take shape whose plot I suspect we will not enjoy, if what I suspect is going on is proven true.  Speak, Sana: it’s obvious you have more you wish to say, and you are far from renowned for having any restraint when stating your mind.”

 

Smiling ruefully at the prince’s not-so-subtle dig, Sanas’er quickly downs the remainder of her tea (dregs and all) and then exhales gustily, sending the little leaves of the potted, verdant centerpiece aflutter.

 

“Alright.  I’ll do this like ripping off a plaster, I suppose.  So!  One, based on how many icy bastards we’ve been turning away having to mislead, they’re stepping up the aforementioned hunt for John, again.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” the part-fae in question sighs in irritated disgust.

 

“Agreed.” the she-elf says, not losing any steam as she continues.  “Two, most compellingly, there’s the matter of all the suddenly missing bodies and the fact that the Prince has nearly always been seen—”

 

As the wizened woman speaks, an echoed trickle of dread runs down John’s back and an entirely different brand and strength of urgency mounts within Nuada, whose already alabaster skin somehow seems to pale even further for a few moments.  Or so it seems from the glimpse John takes out the corner of his eye right before his older lover interrupts the healer.

 

“The Onyx Crown.  They _do_ have it.”

 

There is no hint of a question in the prince’s tone, and Sanas’er mirrors his deadly seriousness when she replies.

 

‘It seems so, yes.  Like I said, there have been sightings of Chulainn just about every damn where over the last couple of days, even _before_ your injury, apparently, from what all the puca are mentioning.  However, _since_ that same day you were brought here, there has been talk of his openly wearing the crown.  Those _gigantic_ storms began cropping up, too, _and_ that’s also when the reports of Places of Rest being left disturbed or even emptied began en masse.”

 

An irritated, percolating resentment slowly stirs in the Bethmooran prince, butting up against John’s own rising confusion that is, itself, ringed in not a small amount of his _own_ irritation.

 

“Right,” Nuada says, decisively.  “So the game has become more complicated.  The Golden Army is out of the equation— if only temporarily— _and_ we have to deal with _this_ , now, too.”

 

“Uh,” John interjects drily, looking between the two intensely conversing elves with a mildly indignant sort of air.  “If I could have a bit of context, here...?”

 

Sanas’er watches as Nuada— brooding and clearly distracted— slides gracefully from his seat and leaves room for his young soulmate to do the same. Stepping in to address John’s request, the wizened healer stacks each of their tea saucers and begins doing the same with their plates.

 

“Long story short, Little One?  Prince Chulainn likely already held a grudge against Nuada’s father, King Balor, stemming from the last time the Onyx Crown made an appearance.  And _that_ was _before_ your knight in dragonhide armor stole you right out from under the Winter Court’s frost-bitten noses during their biggest celebration of the year, well before they were done with you.”

 

Having already stood up from the table, John shoots Sanas’er an imploring look, clearly keen for any more scraps of information.

 

“And the ‘Onyx Crown’ _is_ …?”

 

The healer’s ochre eyes widen ever so slightly, and she shoots her former charge a surprised look, inhaling a very purposeful breath and opening her mouth, only for said former charge to send her a sharp quelling look as he re-inserts himself into the conversation.

 

“Something we can discuss in more detail while we make our final preparations to depart, A’mael.  Thank you for the breakfast and the news, Sanas’er— we’ll stop in before the groups set out.”

 

So saying, Nuada wraps an arm around John’s shoulders, gently but firmly leading him out of the cozy kitchen and towards the doorway that links the headmistress’s on-campus dwelling to the sizeable hospital wing where their temporary quarters are located.

 

As they move away, John says something quietly enough that Sanas’er cannot quite hear the wording, but the tone of his voice conveys that clearly, Nuada can expect a (rightfully) irate fae until the full picture is made completely clear.

 

The medical educator shakes her head in fondness (and perhaps a bit of disbelief) at the antics of the usually intelligent elf prince, marveling at the foolishness of overprotective soulmates whose choices can only truly be attributed to youth.

 

With an intially bittersweet wave of emotion that quickly ends up in a small smile, Sanas’er begins carrying the dirtied dishes over to the basin where she will soon wash them up.

 

“Oh, Ethie, I’m glad you could speak to him, but _damned_ if he’s just as hopeless with his mate as Balor was with you at the start.  Gods help them… and the rest of us, too.”

 

* * *

 

 

 _ **Ethie**_ \- Short for Nuada’s mother’s (Queen Solais') True Name, Nethlenn.  Pronounce it Ettie or Ethie— whichever one floats your boat. Same for the full version of her name.  Neth-lin, Net-lin, Nate-lin, or any other permutation is totally chill, as is  _any_ pronunciation you choose to go with for any character or any thing.  <3

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *
> 
> Come check out [my writing blog](https://dovahdoeswrite.tumblr.com/), where I post early fic snippets and keep you updated on what i'm working on in what fandoms!
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hastily attempts to fit in even more dry exposition where it was forced to go after being kicked out of its first home*

 

Generally, John is all too happy to be manhandled by his spouse-to-be (perhaps _too_ happy, actually, going by its effects in more intimate settings), but he is more than a bit irked to have just been literally steered out of a conversation he’d very much like to continue.

 

Quickly, he uses his outside arm to gently but firmly remove the warm and familiar weight of Nuada’s arm from about his shoulders.  As an extra measure, he flicks at the the elf’s hip, a move that could have easily been dodged, had its target wished. 

 

The dull sting has the elder of the two’s gaze clearing slightly, and he raises one eyebrow in acknowledgement of lover’s actions.

 

“John?” he queries.

 

“Noden,” the fae returns, softening his serious expression only minutely.  “The Onyx Crown?  Your family’s history with the Winter Court?  Any of this sound like it might be prudent for me to know?”

 

“Mm?” The prince hums as he opens the door to their minimalistic shared quarters.  “Of course, Ussta Ai.  I apologize— it is… not something that I particularly wanted to discuss in front of Sanas’er.  I am fond of her, but less so of her interruptions, whether made for colour commentary or expressing chastising disapproval of past actions.  I’ll explain everything as best I can while we ready the last of our items to come with us.  We should get moving sooner than later, as finding the correct inn at the woods’ edge is designed to be quite difficult at night time: more than just magic lurks about once daylight begins to wane.”

 

John gives Nuada a long look as the elf moves over to the basic chest of drawers in which his sparse few sets of clothing are being stored.  They’d originally discussed leaving for Nuada’s mother’s summer home at some hour later in the morning with one of the final excursion groups, but it’s entirely possible that Sanas’er’s news had stoked the fire of urgency burning in Nuada.

 

Blowing out a breath, John also begins rifling through another spartan chest of drawers on the opposite side of the room from the one his mate is carefully emptying.  Meanwhile, having quickly stripped down to his smallclothes from his borrowed house robe and soft sleep pants, Nuada begins to methodically redress himself in a set of clothing that is more suitable for the journey they will be setting out upon imminently.  The rustle of fabric over fabric and the opening and closing of wooden drawers are the only sounds for a long minute until Nuada begins to speak.

 

“It must be said that at first, all beings lived peacefully together— magical, non-magical, mortal, and immortal.  I never had the fortune to live in such a time, myself, but there are ample texts and histories detailing those golden days.  When I was a child, there _was_ still peace, and I knew depthless beauty in nature and kindness from those close to me, though, and that was good enough.”

 

Pausing to lay out the intricately woven and plated piece of armor comprised of layers of petrified Bethmooran whitewood, the prince absently runs a hand carefully over a spot where a small section of shingled wood pieces has fully come loose and fallen off.  The edges of the void are dyed orange-gold from his own blood.

 

“It became evident that mankind could not be contented with their equal portion of resources and dominion over certain places, however, and soon tensions escalated to violence and then, shortly after, into all-out war.  This happens to be when I met Wink and his siblings; one of each was assigned by my father to me, my mother, and my sister.  I was a young man, then— more than competent in battle, trained in strategic warfare, and, most damningly, still naïve.”

 

John has folded his own set of soft robes into a neat, square bundle that he leaves on the armchair in the room’s corner.  He actually knows this entire portion of the history, as it had been mentioned in several of the dry texts he’d studied while living in Inisfal’on with Nuada after his Antarctic misadventure.  Quietly, he pulls on the same set of battle leathers he’d worn on the day they’d gone to raise the Golden Army, as it’s the only proper set of clothing he’d had when he came here.

 

The former BPRD agent watches out the corner of his eye as Nuada reverently packs his damaged breastplate into his large satchel with a distractedness that hints at the muted turmoil of thoughts John is able to feel in spite of how far down they have been pushed.

 

"For a period, it was warfare as warfare always is: bloody, difficult, endless, and opaque in its goals and methods.  We had weapons, they had weapons, and we fought one another with them.  _Then_ , Man deviated from anything we might have expected and broke with convention.  They broke with _honor_. 

 

“ _They began attacking soft targets_ — cities and towns and villages full not of warriors, but children, their caretakers and parents, the elderly, scholars— anyone who clearly had no business or _interest_ in being on the battlefield, and no hope of defending themselves against an army.  Villages were razed to the ground, prisoners taken and used as leverage, and assassinations of arbitrary civilians ran rampant.”

 

Nuada inhales with deliberate calm as he sits on the bed, and exhales as he begins to pull on his boots.

 

“Inisfal’on— to whence we’ll be returning, soon— was one of those places full of such people.  In the madness, as I’ve half-explained in the past, my mother was murdered.  After that, my father’s judgement was compromised, and I…. I took advantage without remorse, because _I_ alone was willing to take the steps necessary to decisively end the war _and_ avenge her death along the way.

 

“If the rules of the game had changed, then I knew I must adapt and excel; the same is true even now, as you know.  So, I commissioned the goblin empire, which fought alongside us so skillfully and bravely with its advanced weapons engineering, to make an army to end all other armies.  _I_ designed the golden crown (with their help, of course) and even gathered some of the rarer base elements that made it up.  It is not just any kind of gold that would suit the job, after all.

 

“And it was I who cheered my father’s using it to efficiently decimate the forces of Man.  Soon afterward, though, he felt immense, _senseless_ guilt over its use and the _result_ of its use— the deaths of those who’d taken away his _Miranndii_.  Naturally, when he lambasted and dressed me down publicly for the ‘excessive cruelty’ of such an ‘abominable, ungodly’ weapon, I argued back.

 

“When he then cloaked himself in cowardice and struck a deal— an apology wrapped in a lopsided bargain, really— I could no longer stand the sight of him.  I knew that the terms of the truce could _not_ be what my mother would have wanted, and so I left.  He endorsed my choice, first, implicitly, and later, aloud.

 

From then on, only Nuala reached out to me, occasionally, trying to bring me back into the fold by having me capitulate or compromise on my views and goals. Eventually, even _that_ stopped, and it was just me.  Often times, Wink would travel with me, but not always.  And that was the status quo for many years...”

 

Both men have finished packing by now, what with their extremely sparse amount of belongings, due to having arrived at Sanas’er’s school with nothing but the clothes on their backs, initially.  John, having never heard this full story from start to finish from Nuada himself as _he_ had experienced it, is somewhat floored.

 

He would follow his mate through any and everything, but many more things about the way the elf operates and even emotes make sense, now.  _Jesus_.  John’s own father had passed before he’d ever had a chance to know him, but he’s sure he’d have ended up pretty damn upset with the guy if they’d had the kind of contemptuous relationship that Balor and Nuada had had.

 

Leaving his sheathed weapons atop the pillows of the freshly made bed, John lowers his hands from where they’ve been working at lacing the front of his trousers— the very same ones he’d been wearing when they’d had the encounter in the Golden Army’s barracks not too long ago.  (Luckily for them, their clothing had received minor repairs and courtesy cleanings.)

 

On socked feet, he moves to stand between Nuada’s opened knees where the elf sits on the bed’s edge, gazing straight forward sans any true expression.

 

Nuada’s gaze clears once he registers his mate’s presence in front of him as well as the steadying stream of emotions flowing forth from the other side of the bond.  The fae brushes a hand through the little streak of fiery orange-red hair at Nuada’s temple that had appeared sometime before the injured male had woken up from his healing sleep.  As always, the long, satiny locks’ texture feels amazing running between his fingers.

 

The elf’s eyes close as John’s hands come to rest along a strong, very lightly stubbled jaw and statuesque cheekbones.  Pressing a quick kiss along the crown of his lover’s head, the part-fae steps back and out of the loose hold Nuada had unconsciously taken of his hips.

 

“Some of this still feels pretty fresh to you, hm?  Our bond wasn’t this strong back when you confronted your father, or spoke about your mother, before, so I had no idea; I can see why you wanted to go over everything privately.  I won’t apologize for asking for more information, but I will say as many times as I can that _I_ will always be on your side, fighting whatever fight brings us closer to our goals.”

 

During John’s quiet speech, Nuada opens his eyes and looks straight into the intense, light blue of his lover’s irises, eventually daring to almost smile at the other man’s words.

 

“I know, A’mael.  _Amin mela ssin_.”

 

“I love you, too,” the former BPRD agent replies, grinning lightly at the onset of a bit of levity.  “Now get to double-checking that you have everything so we can _go_ already, since you seemed so eager to set out, earlier.”

 

Having already done just that, Nuada rather effectively shakes off whatever is left of the toxic fog of unpleasant feelings threatening to cling to him and smoothly gets to his feet.  Doing so only causes the smallest of twinges to his still tender and healing chest, thankfully.

 

John had turned away to pass Nuada by while heading to his own bag of personal effects but ends up summarily being spun around and then tugged into a sudden embrace that has the air catching in his lungs for a few moments.

 

Without speaking, the Bethmooran native conveys another ‘thank you’ by way of his gaze and the gently oscillating pool of more pleasant emotions.  When he then fully reels John in, the younger man goes willingly, leaning in and looking up while closing his eyes.  The kiss is mostly chaste, but it _does_ go on for a bit longer than a simple embrace should.  Brushing off Nuada’s wandering hand which has just settled into a strategic place over one of his buttocks, John steps back and out of easy reach, sporting a mildly incredulous look.

 

“Seriously?  You really _do_ have the worst sense of timing for when to have a quickie.  _Christ_.  Are you ignoring that Sana has a hyper-developed sense for whenever we start toeing the line on anything past first base?” he half-chuckles

 

“Right,” Nuada says somewhat forlornly, inhaling deeply and pivoting on his heels to retrieve his bag from the floor at the foot of the bed.  “I’ll touch upon the chronicles of the Onyx Crown, next, once we’re travelling.  I’m eager to get back to the house in Inisfal’on so that we can re-stock our supplies before stopping in at one of the BPRD’s nearby outposts to see if they have more information or anything of value for use in this building conflict between us and The Winter Court.”

 

John shrugs on his own lightly packed shoulder bag and pulls on his comfortably worn-in gloves, feeling the briefest moment of wrong-footedness at not having to also don his old mask any longer.  The odd feeling dissipates when his lover stops to lean in for a quick kiss as he brushes by on the way to the door.

 

“Come.  The journey begins again, Melar.”

 

Feeling warmed by Nuada’s easy affection, even in the face of their grim circumstances and the shared sense of generalized worry each of them is feeling, John still manages a small smile.  Swiftly, he heads out into the corridor beyond the door that Nuada politely holds open.

 

* * *

 

 

 ** _Miranndii_**  – Mate/Soulmate.  _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_ **(said: mi-RAWN-dee)**

 ** _A'mael_**  - Beloved.  _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_ **(said: aw-my-ELL)**

 ** _Amin mela ssin_**  – I love you.  _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_ **(said: aw-MEEN may-LAW seen)**

 ** _Melar_** – Love (noun, as in the endearment). _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_ **(said: may-LAR)**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *
> 
> Come check out [my writing blog](https://dovahdoeswrite.tumblr.com/), where I post early fic snippets and keep you updated on what i'm working on in what fandoms!
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	5. Chapter 5

 

In reality, they don’t actually get back to talking about the Onyx Crown for another day or so out of an abundance of caution.  Having arrived in a spectacular swirl of rather chaotic ice magic just after John had lost the last vestiges of the rather powerful Anonymity charm his bartered-off mask had provided, a fair amount of the Winter Court’s manhunters had popped up in the immediate area.  (Luckily, Sanas’er’s staff is well-learned as well as loyal, and has had little issue either redirecting any inquiring parties to another location entirely or just convincingly playing dumb.)

 

Since John and Nuada had made their entrance so grandly, it only follows that their exit should be the complete opposite, and so they set out with one of a dozen five to eight-man teams of experienced healers and their students that are ostensibly running field work drills.

 

They spend the day embedded thoroughly in the group of students and a single instructor, hiking mostly uphill on a route that runs mostly adjacent to one that leads to their actual destination: a puca lodge just inside the forest’s outer limits.  In addition, every one amongst their number (and in every other group in the woods) completes every last task and action with their robe’s hood up, so as to make each person difficult to distinguish from the next.

 

John’s preference would be to simply make a break for the forest’s edge in the middle of the night, but he’d grudgingly agreed with Nuada _and_ Sanas’er that that might be _exactly_ what their adversaries would expect.  Instead, they bed down at sunset with the rest of their group and suffer through a night of restless half-sleep where almost any sound in the mostly quiescent forest sets their nerves alight.

 

Nuada is all too eager for the troupe to set out once dawn’s light filters in past large tree trunks and free-growing shrubbery.

 

Thankfully, this first leg of their journey is without incident.  Sooner than he’d expected to (and in a place that seems ambiguous to John, who is utterly unfamiliar with the region), Nuada leads the younger man off the path that the others will likely continue to follow for the rest of the day.  The two make their way up a rather steep incline, fatigue and healing injuries be damned, for only another hour or so before the ground begins to level out and the space between each tree begins to gradually increase.

 

The moss-covered thatched roof inn— which, according to Sanas’er, is still puca-owned— is a quaint and welcome sight for the exiled prince.

 

“Oh thank _God_ ,” his fae lover exhales, at his side.  “I haven’t felt this tired since the first week of weapons training with you and Wink.”

 

Glancing around furtively as they walk up the cobbled path to the front door, Nuada sniffs in lieu of an actual chuckle, holding open the door for his lagging mate.

 

John is _definitely_ not going to like the news that they are only stopping here for perhaps a quick meal before making use of the friendly proprietor’s portal-making capabilities.  In all likelihood, Nuada will err on the side of caution and lobby to postpone their next meal until they reach their next, far safer destination, which will be far closer to their ultimate goal of Inisfal’on.

 

As though sensing his thoughts, John turns curious, bright blue eyes— captivating, even shadowed underneath from fatigue as they are— on him and makes an inquiring noise.  The part fae acquiesces easily to the tender kiss Nuada presses to soft lips, as they had been cautious not to act as anything other than two peers out hiking with an instructor for the past 24 hours and hadn’t dared do much besides push their bedrolls too close to one another’s last night.

 

When John pulls back from their embrace, he must catch some hint of Nuada’s vaguely wistful musings, as his eyes narrow ever so slightly in suspicion.

 

The younger man’s analysis of the elf’s muted ponderings is derailed by a booming voice coming from a doorway at the back of the little living room in which they stand.

 

Nuada spins around and straightens up as a lanky figure enters the room with a polite greeting that soon morphs into his name.

 

“Good day!  Welcome to th—  why… is that _you_ , Prince Nuada?  Oh _wow_!  And is that the little ice fae my cousins spoke of?  _Wow_ — at _my_ inn?  Oh my—what can I do for you, your highness?  And for you, ah…”

 

In his periphery, he sees John’s eyebrows inch up his forehead as the tall man— a puca in humanoid form— whose jet black dog ears are perked up and swiveled forward in his excitement nearly seems set to vibrate out of his skin in anticipation of helping them out.

 

“This is, in fact, the very same fae you’ve heard about, yes, Padraig.  This is my Intended, Johnathan Myers.”

 

At this, the former BPRD agent in question steps forward and begins to extend a hand which Nuada gently pushes down at the same time as the innkeeper bends at the waist in a deep bow.

 

“Well…” John mutters, brows still raised.

 

Nuada reminds himself to spend at least a few minutes, at some point, giving the younger man a crash course in what to expect in the role he will one day be occupying at his side.

 

In any case, time is not something they have an overabundance of, and so the prince addresses the shapeshifter before them before the well-meaning (but distracted) male can begin spiraling once more.

 

“Padraig, it is wonderful to see you again after so long, but I am afraid that circumstances dictate that this remain only a brief reunion, as we need to make our way back to Inisfal’on swiftly— hopefully after leaving some sort of false trail.”

 

Dark, hazel green eyes sober up and the middle-aged puca nods once.

 

“Well, then, you’ll have need of my wife’s services— she’s the Travel-Gifted one.  Come along,” he says, one ear swiveling amongst a head of short, ebony curls.  “Sounds like she’s just down in the cellar.  She’ll know more about that false magical trail business than a simple herbalist like me.”

 

Padraig waves his guests ahead of him towards the back of the inn’s ground level.  Úna **—** according what he’d called down the cellar stairs, initially— greets them warmly and politely before delving right into how to get them where they need to go, and how best to try misleading anyone trying to follow them there.

 

Early that afternoon— only a few hours later, and John and Nuada step out of their final portal of the day and arrive at the puca-run inn closest to Inisfal’on.

 

* * *

 

 

 ** _Puca_   - (said: POO-ka)  **( _boy_ are there a lot of spellings and pronunciations for these mythological shape-shifters.  I went with the one I use, here, but go wild and like any other word or term I throw in/bastardize, say it any which way you’d like.c: )

**_Padraig_ – (said: PAW-drig)**

**_Úna_ – (said: OO-naw)**

\-----

The ‘aw’ for all the ‘A’s in names/words would certainly look less funny when broken down to my off-brand phonetic spelling if I just wrote them as ‘ah’, but I live in ‘Murrica’, where a lot of folks’d pronounce ‘ah’ like the ‘a’ in ‘flat’ and not as in ‘fall’.  I should probably just figure out the IPA, but eh.

 

Also, hope I'm not making your eyes bleed, native Irish speakers. soz

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sweeps hand across horizon, grandly* OCs. OCs as far as the eye can see...  
> *
> 
> Come check out [my writing blog](https://dovahdoeswrite.tumblr.com/), where I post early fic snippets and keep you updated on what i'm working on in what fandoms!
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	6. Chapter 6

 

Once in their rooms, and without any needed discussion, John and Nuada strip down to their underthings, trudge to the sizable bed, and then promptly climb into it for a much-needed nap.  The two sleep deep and hard, only stirring after the sun sets in the evening.  The first to awaken is John, who blinks open heavy eyelids and stifles a yawn with one hand while slowly taking stock of his surroundings.

 

His travel bag sits atop a plain chair next to a curtained window, while Nuada’s lies atop a short bench near the door to the washroom, and their clothing and armor are strewn haphazardly, he remembers, at the foot of the bed.  One tall candle in a glass lamp burns away quietly, on a bedside table, likely set with a magical timer.

 

Turning around in Nuada’s loose hold— they’d apparently moved to spooning from simply lying close, side by side— the fae makes use of his improved eyesight to drink in the fine, exotic features of his lover.  The chiseled cheek bones, the noble nose and brow, the half-darkened lips, and the edge of a tapered ear peeking out from a tumble of pale, platinum white-blonde locks make for an appealing sight that has John appreciating that such an otherworldly, beautiful person has decided to return his affections in kind if not multiplied.

 

Skating his gaze down past a vulnerable neck, he follows the fall of a section of hair that brushes over well-defined pectorals and finds himself drawn to look at the still-healing place where a mirrored wound had nearly stolen away his other half far before his allotted time on this earthly plane.  They’d removed the bandage, quickly, and given it a cursory check before tipping over into bed, earlier, but the raised scar is still coloured a sore, sienna that has John unconsciously reaching a few fingers out to brush the nearby area.

 

A warm hand gently grasps his own and John’s eyes leap up to find that he must have been being observed in turn by his very much awake lover for some time.  Exhaling in sync with his mate, the weight of the golden gaze locked onto his own begins to take on a different weight than that of appreciation or mere observation.

 

John’s heartbeat begins to pick up as Nuada pulls his right hand closer and turns it so his wrist is faces upwards as much as it comfortable.  The elf has to lift himself up slightly to lay a lingering kiss to the mark that the Winter Court had left over top of John’s radial pulse point.  The unbroken eye contact as well as the brush of long, soft hair against his fingers has the part-fae shivering in a way that has nothing to do with cold, what with how wreathed in warmth they are.

 

“Nuada,”  John whispers, hushed, his mouth falling open on a gasp as Nuada goes on to leave a series of searing, sucking kisses all the way up to his shoulder, finishing up with a sharp nip at the juncture of John’s neck and shoulder that has the younger of the two keening out an embarrassingly loud moan that he has to bite his own lip to belatedly muffle.

 

The satisfied elf leans back to admire his work, then, exuding a low thrum of contentment twining with lust and arousal as he undoubtedly sees how John is beginning to sport the start of his usual sex flush.  Something important _does_ occur to the younger man, then, however, as addled as his thought processes have suddenly become.

 

“Wait.  You’re supposed—.  Have to take it easy until you’re all healed, remember?” he manages to say in as even a voice as he can muster with how painfully turned on he is.

 

Nuada’s mildly disappointed face quickly morphs into a glittering, intrigued look that burns with a still unsated hunger once John pushes him to lie back on his side with a quick peck to marginally upturned lips.

 

“Lemme’ just—” John says, breathlessly, half-falling out of bed in his haste to make his way to Nuada’s traveling bag and the contents of one of its many extra pockets.

 

When the ex-BPRD agent turns back around with a fresh jar of oil, it is to find that Nuada lies fully bare on the bed, stroking his erect member languidly while devouring John with dark eyes.

 

Placing the small container atop the corner of the duvet, John cannot help but treat the other man to the same full-body perusal while removing his own smallclothes.  He dips several fingers into the jar and retrieves a decent amount of the solid grease, which he begins to warm by rubbing said fingers against one another and his palm while climbing back into bed.

 

“Okay, so we just need to take it easy and— hey, woah!   _Not_ strenuous is the idea, here, remember?”

 

Nuada had rolled onto his back while pulling John over top of him, mid-sentence, even planting one foot flat on the bed and bending the other leg outward to offer an obvious invitation for where John could put his freshly lube-covered fingers.

 

Leaning down to kiss his enthused lover deeply, John echoes the groan the elf releases that rumbles through the air between them.  With the barest remnants of his agenda in mind, the younger man pulls away and falls back onto his side, counting on the other man to mirror his position again.

 

He is not disappointed, and soon Nuada’s outside hand is splayed on John’s face as their lips meet again and again before parting to allow their tongues to meet and clash erotically between breaths that pick up when John begins expertly fisting the elf’s cock with his liberally oiled-up hand.

 

“Nngh- _ah_.  A’mael, _yes_.” Nuada sighs before nipping at John’s full lower lip hard enough to make the fae’s member twitch where it remains hard and untouched.

 

“ _Mmf_ ,”  John moans encouragingly, swallowed up in the unspeakably hot melding of their mouths and tongues, again, that only serves to heighten the slick sounds of him working the sizable erection with an increasing pace to match the hypnotic undulations of the elf prince’s hips as he fucks into the hand pulling him steadily toward climax.

 

The air crackles with heat between them when John pulls back from Nuada’s suddenly tightening grip to lean his sweat-dappled forehead against the barely damp one of his lover.

 

“Come on, Noden— show… show me you love me.”

 

Knowing his lover pretty well by now, John uses his honestly acquired sense of timing to read the way Nuada’s breath has shortened and how his thrusts, shallow though they are, have become erratic.  With alacrity, he slips down the bed and takes the head of Nuada’s cock into his mouth, immediately applying intense suction while continuing to work the throbbing phallus with his right hand and pressing firmly against the patch of skin just behind tightly drawn balls.

 

Not even a moment later and Nuada’s body stills completely before a shudder works its way down his spine as John efficiently continues to suck him throughout his lengthy orgasm, only pulling away when Nuada gasps from oversensitivity.

 

With a satisfied (read: devious) grin and a rather remarkable case of sex hair, John crawls back up and plants a quick kiss on Nuada’s cheek, as the elf’s mouth is still open, taking in extra air.  Mashing his left cheek into his pillow, the part-fae closes his eyes in contentment, but really only has a few more seconds of calm triumph to indulge in before his literal equilibrium is upset.

 

“Wh-Nuada!” he gasps out as he is promptly flopped onto his back and then has his legs moved aside by strong shoulders.  His breath catches in his dry throat as he watches a familiar hand, wet with lubricant, stroke his neglected erection where it lies against his lower stomach.

 

“Ffffuuuck,” the part fae breathes out, melting back down into the soft bed for a moment before his lowering eyelids snap open again.

 

“Hey— what happened to nothing strenu-  oohhh _hhh_ my _god_.”

 

Seemingly taking no notice of his overprotective lover, Nuada simply swallows down John’s entire cock, skillfully repressing the pesky reflex to get rid of anything pushing at the lining of his throat.

 

Meanwhile, John swears he sees stars and cannot seem to stop himself from making frequent, loud moans and sighs as Nuada sets a slow but intense pace of deepthroating his fae lover.  Rather quickly, the part-fae is clutching the pillow with one hand (the one still covered in oil) and grasping tangled silky locks desperately with the other as he careens toward completion.

 

“Love—” he gasps out between embarrassing keens he tries to quiet, “Love y-you, Nuada!”

 

An oil-wet finger merely pressing at his entrance, the tip hardly slipping in, is what does it— a second later, and John’s subconscious has the wherewithal to move his right hand from clutching the pillow to instead cover his own mouth to muffle whatever sound he is bound to be making.

 

A hot hand strokes him through his peak, and John feels himself pulsing several small pools of come onto his own abdomen, his thighs quivering ever so slightly.  With how keyed up he’d been from working Nuada up, it hadn’t really taken long to coax John over the edge.  The hammering of his heart has the still panting part-fae covering his eyes by laying his arm across his eyes for a few seconds.

 

 _Wow_.  That’d been one hell of a quickie.

 

A calloused hand runs down his forearm, skimming carefully off the brand on his inner wrist before drawing his arm back down from overtop his face and revealing the sight of Nuada, hair still mussed, gazing at him softly.  A curtain of pale hair blocks out the waning candlelight while they kiss again for several long moments.

 

When they separate, Nuada’s expression turns a bit mischievous and John hardly has time to figure out why when a chilly, damp washcloth is plopped right down in the middle of his sternum.

 

“You—” he half-gasps, appalled, before Nuada soothes him with a press of his lips to John’s.

 

“Apologies.  The basin of water over there is not warmed.  Let me help wipe you down, as we will soon be due for supper and then a proper wash before setting out again.”

 

“You’d better help me out— throwing ice water on me like that.  Wait until I tell Sanas’er you want me to catch cold.”

 

Nuada smirks and raises one eyebrow in lieu of rolling his eyes, a gesture he is a little _too_ dignified for, generally.

 

“Oh?  And when I tell her what _preceded_ this perceived slight…?”

 

John does not pout _ever,_ he will insist mostly honestly, but it’s a damn close thing, this time.

 

*

 

Their evening goes according to plan, and after washing up as thoroughly as they can with their two basins of cool water and several washcloths, they head downstairs to partake of a hearty supper at Three Horse Inn.

 

The simple but filling meal is served by one of its equine puca proprietors, whose white ears flicker in unsuccessfully muted pride when they call her back to order seconds.  As the two men tuck into their second portions, the elder sister (and apparent chef) accepts their compliments before informing them she will begin setting up the hot bathwater in their room.

 

Once the couple eventually make their own way upstairs, they make quick work of washing up before getting dressed and gathering their meagre belongings once more.

 

When they make to leave via the inn’s service door, however, they are almost bowled over by the very same innkeeper from earlier.  The adolescent puca, Anann, apologizes profusely, eyes wide and ears rapidly swiveling to and fro.

 

The cause of her heightened state of excitement is revealed shortly when she ushers Nuada, John, and her curious sister out the back door.  They are met there by two familiar animals who perk up at the sight of their masters just in time for said masters to move forward and greet them warmly.

 

Édain carefully lowers her gigantic, antler-crowned head— gingery fur seemingly pristine for all her time traveling-who-knows-where who-knows-how— and Nuada bestows a reverent kiss born of centuries of affection on her forehead, all the while nobly ignoring how her stubby tail wags excitedly side to side not unlike a canine’s would.

 

Meanwhile, Boann nudges at John’s torso with her own rather sizeable head, nearly knocking the fae over before he braces himself and lifts her head up slightly so he can lay his face along hers and hug her as best he can.  Before Nuada and, well, Wink, he hadn’t had much opportunity to miss someone (or something) that would actually miss him back.

 

In any case, this first bit of good news in a while is welcome, and it is the work of only a few minutes to double-check and fix each mount’s tack and get settled.  Neither animal seems to be sporting any injury, and wherever they have been seems to have had ample supplies of food and water both, so John and Nuada have no qualms saddling up and making ready to depart immediately.

 

The elder sister, Éri, who sports black-speckled white ears, bows and bids them a safe journey in response to the young men’s final farewells.  Anann looks at them with peculiarly kind softness as she does the same as she copies her sibling's goodbyes before turning to quietly go back inside.

 

It’s possible that she remembers John as they’d first seen him, sick and insensate in Nuada’s arms after they’d just barely escaped the Winter Court, and is perhaps experiencing some version of nostalgia.  Or so Nuada surmises when his sharp eyes catch the curious display of emotion.

 

In any case, they ride out into the woods during twilight hours with nothing but the clear, cool air of the night ahead of them, and the rising moon above.

 

* * *

 

 

 ** _A’mael_**  - Beloved.  _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_ **(said: aw-my-ELL)**

**Annan – (said: AN-in)**

**Éri – (said: AY-ree)** (that’s ‘ay’ as in ‘plate’)

 **É** **dain – (said: AY-deen)** (that’s ‘ay’ as in ‘plate’)

 **Boann – (said: BO-in / BONE –** I know, bit of a difference. haha. I’m trying my best. Almost added the ‘boo-an’ one in, too **)**

As always, y’all: you’re free to pronounce every and any thing however you’d like.  If it’s been ‘Eden’ and ‘Bo-anne’ for you all this time since the two were introduced, go wild. <3  I just know some of these names can look confusing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut! Smut... was not planned for this chapter, but... well, I guess the boys just got bored of _not_ having had any yet. hahaha  
>  *
> 
> Come check out [my writing blog](https://dovahdoeswrite.tumblr.com/), where I post early fic snippets and keep you updated on what i'm working on in what fandoms!
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *keeps trying stuff more exposition into the overfilled fic!suitcase*

 

Inisfal’on is not far, but there is the occasional suspicious fellow traveler or strangely well-lit bed & breakfast they pass by as the hours creep on.  They are not straining the horses/dire elk and rushing to their destination, as not to draw undue attention, though, so this last leg of the journey begins to feel interminable, even to a pair of quasi-immortal beings.

 

At his side, Nuada hears John clear his throat before bringing up the subject he has been very much keen to discuss.

 

“So.  Nothing but us, the trees, and the moon.  No better time than now to talk about the Onyx Crown, hm?”

 

Containing a sigh, the warrior prince instead inhales deeply, once, before trying to force himself to relax in the saddle, as riding with undue tension in his muscles would _not_ do his recovery any good.  Pondering where to begin, the prince just-barely furrows his brows and looks into the middle distance.

 

“An overarching concept that I believe you’ve been made aware of through both personal experience and your more recent studies, is that, overall, magic is mostly chaotic until either channeled _through_ an object, bent to our will _by_ an object, or exuded from our bodies as supernatural beings.  Hence having to _practice_ at using it, or having to seal a complex, ever-refreshing enchantment or charm into a weapon or piece of armor.  When left to its own devices, magic is akin to power: not particularly ‘good’ or ‘bad’.”

 

John ‘mhms’ in acknowledgement of the summary of some of the basic theory he remembers having read during his last stay at Nuada’s mother’s summer home.

 

“Right, well, what I’m quite sure your dusty old tomes likely didn’t go into detail about is that sometimes, even when magic is restricted to an object or item, certain catalysts can cause it to rapidly deteriorate and ‘lash out’ on a grand scale for lack of a better term.  More often than not, the trigger in question is thought to simply be a weak or corrupt mind— as of a king seeking only power or self-aggrandizement, rather than the betterment of his subjects or their circumstances.

 

"That is the prevailing theory, in any case, but the truth is that magic precedes pretty much every species of anything on Earth, and often seems to have a mind of its own in certain matters.”

 

The myriad birdsongs about their little pocket of privacy continue uninterrupted as they make their winding way along the beaten path through the woods, enjoying the cautious warmth of the early spring weather.  John listens closely and begins to grow relatively sure he can see where this story might be going, but still listens raptly as Nuada continues speaking.

 

“One of the most recent cases in the collective memory of the fae seasonal courts is one that I am almost directly connected to.  There are also innumerableoccasions of mundane humans acquiring magical items— whether intentionally or accidentally— and almost immediately incurring an overwhelming magical backlash of some sort.  But I digress again...

 

"The Onyx Crown _was_ originally Chulainn’s— or rather, it was his birthright by way of his father who not only owned it, but had also had it created.”

 

“He— so… why did _you_ have it?”

 

And what could he have possibly wanted to _do_ with it, the fae can’t help but wonder, even while while waiting for the hopefully forthcoming explanation.  His audible alarm and confusion must be more intense than he’d thought, because Nuada comes out of his reverie enough to momentarily glance over at him before looking forward again.

 

Ahead of them, the gradually disappearing path slowly turns back into a seemingly never-traversed, regular forest floor that the elf (or at least trusty Édain) appear to know well.

 

“When King Yerehv— Prince Chulainn’s father and a family friend for ages— commissioned some of the most powerful necromancers and armor enchanters to create for him a crown like no other, he spared no expense and got precisely what he wanted— a terrifyingly powerful heirloom.  It became clear that something had begun to go wrong with the man, though, when he suddenly led an attempted coup of the Fae Autumnal Court, a mutual ally of the Kingdom of Bethmoora _and_ the Winter Court alike.

 

“The whole thing was poorly planned and doomed from the start, with my father eventually intervening in the midst of the uproar and chaos that was caused by the mad king’s poorly-thought out power play.  The crown has immense power, and can _augment_ its wearer’s own gifts, too, but its magic had warped, somehow, and turned on Yerehv, instead sapping his fae magical core and draining him nearly dry.  Hence the apparent madness and  then his death shortly following the whole fiasco.

 

“Now,” Nuada says, evenly, “keep in mind all of this happened some time _after_ I’d left in disgust over my father’s unwillingness to use the available means to retain or grow our realm’s power.  He had figured that something like the attempted coup might happen, and managed to opportunistically, ‘altruistically’ take possession of the Onyx Crown, promising to keep it under lock and key, and out of the hands of any persons unworthy of its immense and dangerous power.”

 

John snorts quietly at the past audacity of the late King Balor, admittedly intrigued by the odd little history lesson on the Onyx Crown.  There’s just something that isn’t quite connecting for him, though, and he tries to puzzle out exactly _what_ it might be while Nuada draw his story to a close.

 

“I had Wink and a few trusted cave pixies work together to take advantage of the unrest I left in the wake of ending my father’s feeble-handed ‘leadership’ of our people.  Those little things are remarkably good at blending into stone when it suits them— something which was very useful since my sentimental father never revoked my ability to unlock the treasure and weapons vaults deep underneath the palace grounds.  I think all the rest is history, as you say, from there.”

 

True— except for two things, really, that John immediately brings up.

 

“ _Mostly_.  Except if you had the Onyx Crown, what did you send Wink out to do early that morning, when we were all supposed to meet up?” (On the day that you nearly died, the fae deliberately does not say.)

 

“Mm,” Nuada hums, momentarily.  “Well, I never wanted to keep the crown _near_ me, what with how much I tend to travel.  So I had it entrusted to a select few ship owners and business proprietors once it was mine.”

 

John half-frowns as it becomes a bit more obvious to him.

 

“You… hid it in an antique shop, didn’t you?  Just like where a piece of the Golden Crown was hidden back in the Troll Market.  _Wow_.”

 

There must be something with elves and antique shops, apparently, he figures.  As that somewhat silly thought slips away, the younger man finally begins to put together the half-formed idea that’s been percolating in the back of his mind for quite some time.

 

“ _Wait_.  You had Wink go off to grab this crown before we were supposed to all meet up, right?  What, were you planning to try and wear _both_ , as if the Golden Crown doesn’t carry its own risks, already?  _How_ would you even— oh.  _Oh_.  Oh my _God_!”

 

Nuada almost imperceptibly winces and stoically peers up into the late evening moonlight sifting between solid tree trunks and low-lying limbs and branches.

 

“Oh my _God.”_ The part-fae repeats, softer **,** but in just as much incredulity.  “You were going to _give the crown to me?_ ”

 

* * *

 

 

**_Yerehv_ –  (said: YEH-rehv)**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *
> 
> Come check out [my writing blog](https://dovahdoeswrite.tumblr.com/), where I post early fic snippets and keep you updated on what i'm working on in what fandoms!
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	8. Chapter 8

 

“…A’mael?, I—”

 

John is flabbergasted— not necessarily angry, but more than a bit flummoxed, and he continues talking, as if Nuada hadn’t also just started to speak.

 

“The same crown that apparently killed the last guy who wore it, if I’m recalling the end of that story correctly.  _Jesus_.”

 

He blows out a gusty breath and makes an effort to come down from his rather heightened state, an effort that is somewhat stymied by way of Nuada’s unapologetic, intense gaze that remain unwaveringly on him all the while.  The elf’s brows are drawn down ever so slightly and his smooth, cultured tone remains deliberately uninflected in spite of the crackling irritation that John can feel exuding from the other side of the bond.

 

“You are remembering the conclusion of the tale correctly, yes.  _But_ I was hoping to bring the Onyx Crown in as a secondary means to an end in the case that I was unable to acquire the Golden Crown successfully— which I _wasn’t_.”

 

Fully settling down again, mentally, at the sobering reminder of exactly _why_ his partner’s bid to use the Golden Army had gone sideways, John is able to process this bit of news with a marginally more objective viewpoint.  He can admit that his other half likely has enough experience in this arena to ensure that the contingency plan would have been a pretty decent one, if not for Prince Chulainnn entering the scenario as a dark horse.

 

The Winter Court escapee squints his eyes and mulls over whether it’s worth giving his partner any more guff, or if _perhaps_ he should concede aloud that the idea of him— John— trying to wield a crown originally crafted for another ice fae _might_ have worked out, potentially.

 

The forest is quieter in this area, and the quiet persists uninterrupted between them for a few minutes as the majority the tension dissipates.  Eventually, the older of the two speaks again, making an admission that clearly took him some time to work up to.

 

“In addition to having it at hand being a strategic advantage, I… also wished to give you a gift, as I have not yet found the time to return to the BPRD outpost in Antarctica and cull its population.  I had thought to perhaps display the director’s and other leaders’ heads or corpses all along the grounds as an example to any who would dare think of hurting you, my Beloved.  You asked for _that_ as a gift, after all, not all too long ago.”

 

With a chuckle, John finally fully relents, feeling a fond spark of affection at his lover’s vindictive side being so baldly displayed.

 

“Well… fair enough, I suppose.  Not what I asked for, but it’s the thought that counts, right?  I appreciate the sentiment and the ‘strategic importance’ and everything.  And ‘matching’ headwear sounds nice, too, to be purely materialistic, for a moment.  I mean, what’s a pair of Kings without crowns, right?” the fae jokes while brushing what feels like a heap of tickling cobwebs from his neck and about his face when his horse leads them under a low-hanging branch between two closely rooted trees.

 

Nuada purses his dark lips while John rambles, instinctively ducking to avoid any lingering spiderwebs that the smaller man might not have dislodged while passing through the same gap seconds earlier.  Still, as the fae pulls a bit ahead again, the Bethmooran noble’s expression lightens at his mate’s roundabout delivery of half-forgiveness.

 

“That is… not quite how I would phrase the sentiment, but you’re not too far off, all the same.  Now, let’s pick up the pace- we are very nearly to safe territory, and the faster we get to the manor, the faster we can re-supply, look into Wink’s disappearance, and then pool our efforts to cut off Chulainn’s obnoxious play for power he has no business or cause for pursuing.”

 

John feels a gentle wave of discomfiting, prickling coolness brush over his body just as Nuada finishes speaking and it takes him a moment to place where he’s felt that same thing in the past.  Alarm rises hot and sudden, then, as the odd sensation finally pings as that of a subtle, but powerful glamour over the area they’ve just entered.

 

In such close proximity, the red alert of his mate’s hyper-awareness almost instantly sets Nuada on edge, and the elf’s superior hearing soon identifies the source of the seemingly randomly-placed ‘obscured’ pocket of the woods.

 

Riders— several of them— are closing in from two different directions, effectively flanking them.

 

Their luck has run out.

 

* * *

 

 

 ** _A’mael_ - ** **Beloved. _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_  **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Short chapter, I know. oop.)  
> *
> 
> Come check out [my writing blog](https://dovahdoeswrite.tumblr.com/), where I post early fic snippets and keep you updated on what i'm working on in what fandoms!
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	9. Chapter 9

 

“Five— one large,” Nuada murmurs, eyes roving left and right across the particularly dense line of trees surrounding the mostly open spread of forest floor in the copse they’ve entered.  Leading Édain to neatly turn one-hundred-eighty degrees, the keen-eyed Bethmooran native leaves several more feet of space between he and his mate while increasing how much of their surroundings are in their combined field of vision.

 

Glancing over at the other male during the near-instantaneous change in position, John notes that although his elf lover’s constitution is incredibly strong, the seasoned warrior is still not quite up to his usual caliber of health and haleness, based on the bit of stiffness in his posture that denotes either a measure of pain or soreness that has yet to be healed.

 

Sensing the quick frisson of worry that runs through his mate, Nuada simply rolls his shoulders before easily, if carefully, pulling his lance out from its usual place behind his back, leaving it fully extended to better enable him to hopefully avoid entering into close combat.

 

John understands the choice, as close-quarters fighting requires whip-quick reflexes and reactions, often, and the elf doesn’t yet seem quite up to that.  He'd definitely have trouble _maintaining_ it, at least, throughout an encounter with the nearly half-dozen opponents sporting varied weapons and presenting varied challenges that are now emerging from several lazily shimmering spots in the treeline.  At the sight, Édain and Boann paw and stomp on the ground, readying themselves for the inevitable confrontation.

 

One of the four average-sized, obviously fae mercenaries moves to the front of the group— perhaps to gloat or announce that John and Nuada can come along peacefully and avoid outright torture, abuse, dismemberment, or who knows what else.

 

The dark-eyed fae only has the chance to pull off its polished helm and smirk haughtily before it suddenly gasps in an incomplete breath that sounds painfully wet.  Clutching at its throat, the lanky body topples from atop its woolly, equine mount and straight to the mossy, green ground, gurgling noisily and desperately all the while.

 

Dark indigo blood quickly spreads over and is soaked up by the soft, loamy forest floor even as  every pair of eyes in the now-silent clearing observes how the lone part-human rolls the wrist of one hand and then quickly shakes it out with naught but a slightly quirked brow in response to the several staring beings.

 

“I’ve had enough of the way you guys like to talk too much, lately.  That might’ve been a bit of a waste of a nice throwing dagger, but unless any of you plan on telling us where our friend, Wink of Aule, is, we should probably just get straight to the fighting part, right?”

 

Nuada mostly successfully stifles a snort at John’s brazen conduct.  There’s an accompanying viciously sated edge to the elf’s expression that John catches the edge of through their bond.

 

The largest of the remaining group rumbles out a truly jarringly loud roar, then, that sends a flurry of squeaking bats out of the moderately thick canopy of deciduous leaves and greenery above.

 

Everyone has the same idea, and both sides rush forward to finally engage in combat.  Quickly, the fight is revealed to be rather lopsided, thanks not only to John and Nuada being outnumbered, but also due to the fact that neither of them is operating at full capacity.

 

Nuada’s typically supernaturally quick reaction time and strength have taken a hit, thanks to his ongoing (if rapid) recovery, and although he manages to duck cleaving swing of a longsword held by the hulking figure of the tundra cyclops, he has difficulty simultaneously dodging a fast-moving projectile that had likely been aimed for one of his eyesockets.

 

With a hiss and a frustrated growl, Nuada wheels Édain around and bolts in the direction of the attacker that is using the ranged weapon.  The deep indigo-violet of the being’s skin is visible only at its hands, which are wrapped strategically to aid with nocking and loosing arrows at a rapid clip.  The tip of Nuada’s ear stings fiercely as his breeze-blown hair catches at the small notch the frosty arrow had made when it had very nearly found its home in his head.

 

Meanwhile, a flurry of silvery clangs sounds as two blades meet rapidly, nearby, before an inhumanly loud screech rings out at the same time as do several thuds that are both fleshy and metallic in nature.  Nuada’s focus narrows down and yet expands in the peculiar, familiar way it does when he engages in a challenging altercation, and on a somewhat labored exhale, he sharply moves his lance to a horizontal position in time to use flat of its spade to fully deflect another arrow **.**

He inhales and time moves strangely, like viscous liquid, and his chest twinges for a moment.

 

His primed senses catalog several things in rapid succession: the sound of his mate’s gasp and the distant swing of a heavy weapon, the vibration in the air from a crescendoing, bassy growl rapidly approaching from behind, the way the tender, fresh skin under his breastbone now throbs dully with his every motion, and lastly, the panicked look on his enemy’s face as she jerkily attempts to draw her short sword.

 

He effortlessly extends the lance again and quickly shifts his grip on its staff so that he can throw it like a javelin.  The indigo fae is violently knocked from horseback by the force of the makeshift spear hitting her and _just_ piercing through the mirror-bright, silver armor covering her stomach.

 

Not chancing the temporary loss of his favoured weapon, Nuada immediately rides toward the downed mercenary and snatches the lance back up by its upright handle— being sure to force it down, first, with his weight and momentum before cleanly jerking it up with relative ease.  The action draws a weak but fiery series of quiet oaths from the incapacitated form on the ground.

 

Sneering in derision, the warrior prince makes quick work of turning around to confront his next challenger.  In the interest of multitasking, he is purposefully careless with where Édain trods, and is coldly satisfied to hear armor crumpling under at least one massive hoof in the lighting fast about-face.

 

The largest concern— both literally and figuratively— is the one-eyed menace that very deftly continuously swings an oversized bastard sword in one gloved hand.  Its other hand holds up a rectangular shield emblazoned with the Winter Court’s symbol in glossy blue paint on the dark, metallic surface.

 

There is a sudden tick of surprise that precedes a flare of irritation from John’s side of the bond, and Nuada chances a quick look to his extreme left and notes his partner efficiently fending off the attacks of a stocky, mercenary whose bald, pale blue head gleams with perspiration.

 

In a blink, Nuada zones back into his own fast-moving confrontation, and must immediately aim to block the heavy blow that the one-eyed giant deals him from on high.  The impact and force of the gigantic blade nearly sends the elf’s arms crumpling when a jolt of sharp pain is sparked from the tender area in the middle of the left side of his ribs.

 

Nuada’s breath seizes in his throat as he forces his muscles to remain locked in position, from forearms down to his straining core.

 

Growling, he begins to marshal his strength and looks into the big, pale grey eye glaring down at him with a level of smug triumph that only fuels his own ire.  The escalating tension and enmity feeds into his fierce stubbornness, too.  Before he can surge forward and hopefully break (or at least weaken) the cyclops’ guard, though, several things happen in rapid succession.

 

The head of what looks like a harpoon or a spear bursts through the very top of his enemy’s breastplate and sends a sharp spray of dark, chilled blood to spatter over his face and the crown of his head.  Nuada nearly overbalances when he is suddenly pushing back against nothing, a disorienting moment not remedied by his having to suddenly squint to try and keep his vision uncompromised.

 

Wiping his face by way of simply rubbing it against his raised shoulder, the perplexed prince keeps an eye pointed at the line of tall, thick shrubbery at one side of the small clearing where the cyclops’ writhing body is being rapidly dragged.  The chain attached to the oversized harpoon impaling the large mercenary remains taut in spite of the way the cyclops frantically tries to dig its fur-booted heels into the soil it is being pulled across.  In mere moments, the same legs end up haphazardly sticking out from the wall of bushes and their flailing jolts to an abrupt stop at the same time as an unmistakably fleshy, visceral sound comes from behind the dense barrier of green flora.

 

A distant feeling of curiosity that parallels his own tells him that John has been watching the last couple of moments— possibly because of the initial spike of shock that he’d experienced several seconds ago.  The use of a projectile weapon with an attached chain and a briefly audible set of heavy footsteps tickles at a sense of familiarity he is hesitant to fully embrace.  He has hardly had time or energy to even begin building up any true sense of optimism for meeting up with his long-time companion every again, but the situation _does_ seem rather compelling.

 

Just then, a rider-less, woolly horse charges by with one side of its saddle wet with inky black blood that glints in the snatches of moonlight that peek through the many leaves overhead. 

 

The sound of John sheathing his swords is about the loudest thing to be heard, since the earlier combat had long since scared off all native wildlife.  Nuada sees his other half approach out the corner of his eye and is intrigued to note that he is now on foot with Boann close at his side.

 

“…Wink?” John calls out carefully but clearly, finally putting a real name to the unspoken hope swelling in Nuada’s heart.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *
> 
> Come check out [my writing blog](https://dovahdoeswrite.tumblr.com/), where I post early fic snippets and keep you updated on what i'm working on in what fandoms!
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	10. Chapter 10

 

The tall being doesn’t answer for a few seconds.  Instead, the feet of the Winter Court-hired hunter are summarily yanked fully into the bushes and out of sight.

 

The creak of Boann’s reins in the young fae’s hands as he prepares to quickly jump back into the saddle triggers Nuada to move from his frozen position.  The prince’s great elk slowly paces forward at its rider’s behest, with its head slightly lowered so that it can quickly transition into a debilitating forward charge if need be.

 

“Hm,” a deep voice intones, as a hulking figure steps out through a mess of shrubbery, deigning to speak in Truhlka.  “Not quite, but close.”

 

An inquisitive worry mixed in with a slowly defusing block of cold determination from John lurks at the edges of Nuada’s awareness while the elf smoothly dismounts Édain and confidently strides forward.

 

“Blynken!   _N’umabbilen ssin amada*_!  Where have you _been_ the last several centuries?”

 

Nuada switches his lance to his left hand— still uncomfortable with putting it away while in potentially hostile territory— and grasps what he can of the cave troll’s gigantic forearm in a warrior’s clasp.  His wince is brief, but noticeable when maintaining his grip tenses some of the more tender muscles in his chest.

 

John’s reassuring presence fills up the space to his right, which he’d left momentarily unguarded, and the move sends a pleased rush of fierce tenderness running through him for his Miranndii.  Some hint of that must show on his face, because his long-lost comrade smiles a painfully familiar gap-toothed grin and then shifts his focus to the man at Nuada’s side.

 

“Eh heh heh— and who’s _this_ , my Prince?  Looks a _bit_ too green to be a new bodyguard and stands _far_ too close to be an adviser.  Perhaps a new _friend_ that—”

 

“—can speak Truhlka reasonably well and can understand it even better,” John smoothly cuts in, less than charmed by Wink’s look-alike sibling.

 

Freezing with an unreadable expression for a moment, the cave troll suddenly breaks into hearty guffaws that have it resting a hand on its partially clothed barrel chest.  Nuada, who had been readying to step in and smooth things out, instead raises an eyebrow at John, who himself, does not look all too amused.

 

“John,” the ex-BPRD agent says tiredly, relenting a bit as he realizes he might have slightly overreacted, just now.  “John Myers: Nuada’s Intended.  No fancy titles to add on.”

 

Some part of this looks to take the troll aback, and Nuada fills in the sudden lull, himself.

 

“And this is Blynken of Aule— or simply ‘Blink’ to my family— Wink’s older brother.  I’m sure we will eventually hear him recount quite the tale, but first, I’m sure we would all much prefer a different, safer setting for that conversations, yes?”

 

Both other males nod and Blink neatly loops lengths of the heavy chain before hanging them on a thick sturdy belt that has a hooked prong protruding on one side.

 

“Honored to meet you Mr. Myers— apologies for any offense, earlier.  Now where in the _hell_ are y’all going?  Been tryin’ to catch up for the last couple hours since I crossed over your path and decided to follow it, in case you’re lookin’ for who I’m looking for, like I think you might be.  Looks like you came from town and started heading toward...?”

 

“Safety,” Nuada says, gently but firmly, squeezing his mate’s hand before reclaiming Édain’s reins from John, who’d ended up between Boann and the large elk.  “Truth be told, we’re not all _too_ far away from the entrance we need, so come along if you wish.  I assume you’ll be doing so, as you went through the effort of finding us and then saving us right afterward.We can exchange stories and catch up once we’re out of these blasted woods.”

 

With a grunt of affirmation, Blink scratches at his bristly sideburns— the only hair to be found on his head— and pulls at the open animal hide vest that he wears over his bare torso.

 

“Sounds good.  Follow me and I’ll show you back to a better, more recent trail.  I’ll never get how all you non-trollkin can stand getting lost or wound around without breakin’ out into hives or something.  Just, uh, maybe don’t step behind those bushes over there.  Forgot just how soft those one-eyed ogre’s heads are.”

 

The cave troll chuckles heartily while his two smaller companions climb back into their saddles and allow him to take point on navigating.

 

* * *

 

 

 ** _Miranndii_ – **Mate/soulmate. _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_ **(said: mi-RAWN-dee)**

 ** _N’umabbilen ssin amada_ – **You anti-social bastard. _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_ **(said: nu-MAW-bee-len seen aw-MAW-daw**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, eh? *waggles brows*
> 
> Anyhoot, that's it for this big 8 chapter update! I hope you had fun. :]
> 
> Give me a few months to circle back around to this fic— about 85% of the rest of this is fleshed out, but there are two big hunks that need rewriting/reworking, and that shit burns me out, so I need to float around in my other fandoms for a while. Maybe you’ll see the occasional unrelated JxN ficlet from me in the meantime, though. c;  
> *
> 
> Come check out [my writing blog](https://dovahdoeswrite.tumblr.com/), where I post early fic snippets and keep you updated on what i'm working on in what fandoms!
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


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